


leave a scar everywhere

by akamine_chan



Category: Bandom, Frank Iero and the Patience, My Chemical Romance, frnkiero andthe cellabration
Genre: Gen, Guitars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-03
Updated: 2018-03-03
Packaged: 2019-03-26 07:43:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13853184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akamine_chan/pseuds/akamine_chan
Summary: Frank falls in love.





	leave a scar everywhere

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lucifuge5](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucifuge5/gifts), [Trojie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trojie/gifts).



> This is all Luce's fault, as usual. Frank posted a guitar on his IG account, and Luce plotbunnied me, wanted the story of Frank getting his new guitar...
> 
> So much love and thanks to Trojie for sharing her knowledge and love of guitars with me, and for a helpful beta. You're the best, bb. <3
> 
> Title from _Dear Percocet, I don’t think we should see each other anymore_ , quote from [Guitar World](https://www.guitarworld.com/gw-archive/my-chemical-romance-guitarist-frank-iero-and-epiphone-team-wilshire-phant-o-matic-guitar).

_The best music happens when you have a personal connection to it. That same philosophy can extend to the instrument you hold in your hands: if a guitar means something special, you're bound to do great things with it._ \--Frank Iero, Guitar World, March 14, 2012.

He wouldn't admit it out loud, but Frank loved New York. He'd grown up in the long shadow of the city, steeped in the traditional rivalry of New York versus New Jersey. But there was something about the dirt and grime of New York that sent a thrill of excitement down his spine, even after all this time.

It was part of the landscape of his life, music venues and sound stages and lawyers' offices, music stores and recording studios. Layers of memories, and he was at a point in his life when he could look at the unhappy experiences through the lens of nostalgia. It wasn't a bad place to be.

Rose's shop was in the Theater District, on 48th Street, right by the obnoxiously loud M&M's store. Maybe if he had time later, he'd stop by and pick up some candy for the kids. Jamia would kill him, because it was ridiculously expensive, also _candy_ , but Lil and Cher and Miles loved all the non-standard colors you could get at the store.

This destination was a little hole in the wall; the brassy nameplate by the door simply said 'Rosetta Borromeo' in plain text. He pushed the buzzer. "Hey Rose, it's me," he said into the speaker.

"C'mon up, Frankie," Rose replied.

Once the door clicked open, Frank had to climb up three flights of almost claustrophobically narrow stairs to get to Rose's. There was a small lobby, and a sturdy wooden door. A discreet sign read 'Borromeo's, purveyors of fine musical instruments, by appointment only.' Years ago, the third floor had been divided up into a series of office spaces, but over time Rose's family had expanded their business until they were the only ones on the floor.

Frank knocked. Rose must have been waiting, because the door opened almost instantly, and he was enveloped in a hug.

"Frankie!" Rose said. "I haven't seen you in forever." She squeezed him hard. "I was sorry to hear about your grandfather. He was a good man."

It was like a barely healed scab, and the sharp stab of grief took his breath away. He wondered if the pain would ever fade. "Thanks, Rosie. My dad got your card, it was nice."

He pulled away and looked at her. He hadn't been by in a couple of years and it was good to see her. She was a small woman, a little older than Frank, shorter but rounder. Her features were soft, but her eyes were sharp. Her only concession to her age was the strands of grey scattered through her dark hair.

Her hands were strong and wide, her fingers calloused from years of playing stringed instruments, everything from violins to guitars to upright basses. Frank had seen her wrestle with instruments taller than her, and win. Her musical knowledge was wide-ranging, and he trusted her completely when she talked about guitars.

The Ieros and the Borromeos had known each other for _years_ ; New York was huge, but parts of the music scene were small. The Borromeo family had been in the musical instrument business since the 1900s. Frank's grandpop had bought Cheech's first drum kit from Rose's grandmother, and Cheech had purchased one of Frank's earliest guitars from Rose's dad. And whenever Frank was looking to try out a new-to-him guitar, he'd email Rose and she'd keep an eye out.

"How are the kids, and Jamia?" Rose asked. She led Frank into one of the workshop areas, a big table covered with bits and pieces of various musical instruments. On first glance, it looked disorganized and messy, the worst kind of chaotic, like someone had blown up a Guitar Center. The longer you looked, though, the clearer it became that there was a method to the madness.

"They're good. Can you believe it, the girls are turning eight this year, and Miles is five."

Rose boggled at him. "When the hell did that happen?"

"I know, man. They're growing up so fast." Too fast, if Frank was honest with himself. It seemed like just yesterday they'd left the hospital with two squirming, crying, blanket-wrapped bundles. And now— "How're your kids?"

"Teenagers." Rose rolled her eyes. "My oldest has started dating. So far, he's brought home a girlfriend _and_ a boyfriend. My ex is freaking out."

Having teenagers was something that Frank was quietly dreading. He remembered how surly and pissed-off he'd been at that age and Jamia claimed that teenage girls were infinitely worse than teenage boys. "I feel you."

Rose shrugged. "Kids. You do your best, and hope things work out in the end." They shared a look of exasperated commiseration.

There was a battered guitar case on the table. "So, anyway, this kid called me up, had a guitar for sale. He said it'd been his mom's, and he told me she'd played in a punk band for years." She ran her hand across the case, almost like she was petting it. "It was important, the kid said, for it to go to someone who'd appreciate it."

"That's awesome," Frank said, because it was. He'd always felt that guitars were more than just wood and metal and strings, that they had a personality of their own. A well-loved instrument always sounded better, somehow.

"I knew you'd been interested in Mustangs, and when this one came in, I immediately thought of you."

Frank had been eyeing some of the late '60s to early '70s Mustangs. They were student-level instruments, nothing fancy for the most part. Mustangs didn't have a lot of nuance, but there was something about their sound that Frank really wanted to experiment with.

Rose patted the case. "I'm just warning you, because the kid's mom played hard. It's in great shape for its age, but it looks like it's been through hell."

Frank shrugged. He had a not-so-secret love of ugly things. They had character, and intrigued him more than the perfectly pretty.

She gestured to the case, a 'help yourself' movement of her hand.

Frank undid the clasps and lifted the lid. "Hello, sweetheart," he murmured. She was absolutely, heartbreakingly beautiful.

"1970 Competition Mustang. It came in three colors, obviously this is the red, with a matching headstock. Poplar body, with slight contouring, so it's not as heavy as it looks," Rose said. 

Frank gingerly picked up the guitar, felt the heft of her and sighted down the neck. 

"No major repairs, the neck's straight and true, the frets don't show a lot of wear," Rose continued. "All original electronics, and while they work pretty well for their age, they could use some clean-up. The bridge pickup slider switch sticks a bit, but that's something that's easily fixed."

He perched on a nearby stool, and settled the guitar into his lap. She fit perfectly, like she belonged there. There were a lot of dings and scratches, mostly concentrated around the edges of her body and on the back, though there were a couple of bad spots under her tailpiece. He ran his fingers over the frets, then picked out a riff which drifted into the opening of _Tragician_ and even without being plugged in, Frank could imagine how much fun he was going to have with this guitar.

"Pretty girl," he cooed. She felt good in his hands, the shape of her neck less chunky than what he was used to, but she still felt _right_. There was something magical about this guitar, like she had been imbued with the passion and creativity of the punk mom. He ran some scales, then dropped into a riff he'd been noodling around with for a couple of days.

"What do you think?" Rose asked eventually.

"I think I'm in love," Frank replied, laughing.

"I knew it!" Rose smiled. She flipped the switch on a nearby amp and handed him the cable. "I'm gonna leave the two of you alone to get acquainted. I'll be in my office when you're ready." 

She wiggled her eyebrows at Frank and he could feel himself turning red. He was grinning, and he couldn't make himself stop. His hand wrapped around the neck, and he plugged her in. She hummed, and Frank let his fingers move without thought, just feeling the music run through him.

-fin-

**Author's Note:**

> And because I'm me, the technical notes:
> 
> Competition Mustangs were produced from 1969 to 1973-ish. Mustangs were student-level guitars, not terribly expensive when they were originally made. They're not known for a lot of sustain or power, which makes them good for a guitarist who likes to use effects pedals.
> 
> A vintage Competition Mustang in good shape will set you back ~$2-3k. 
> 
> Detailed history and info:  
> http://www.vintageguitar.com/3281/fender-competition-mustang/  
> http://www.fendermustangstory.com/
> 
> And because I am the latest: Kurt Cobain was a big fan of Mustangs. The guitar he plays in the _Smells Like Teen Spirit_ video (and at live shows afterwards) is a 1969 Competition Mustang in Burgundy (which is actually a blue color). Frank is an acknowledged fan of Nirvana, and he might be exploring whatever it was about the Mustang that made Kurt such a fan of them.
> 
> Rose is named after Sister Rosetta Tharpe. If you don't know who she is, look her up.


End file.
